


Killing Me Softly With His Song

by PerilousCowboy



Series: 100 Songs Challenge - Billboard Top 100 [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A bit ooc with this fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilousCowboy/pseuds/PerilousCowboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 100 Songs Prompt. The thing about Illya Kuryakin was that no matter how hard he got hit, he always stood back up. Until the one time he didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killing Me Softly With His Song

**Author's Note:**

> This feels really OOC for me, but I hit sort of a block in my writing and needed to get this one out. This is what happens when I listen to sad love songs all day.

**i. rome**

In Rome, it’s the motorbike. It’s Gaby screaming his name as Alexander slams him off of a cliff and after that, it’s just a tangle of metal and limbs and their car is following shortly after. 

She’d lost sight of him while Solo was getting his head cracked with a tire iron. And the next she saw of him, he was tossing his crashed bike like it was nothing. 

A weapon, in his hands. 

He saves them both. It becomes a habit after that. Something she can rely on. That, and his hands scooping her up from the wet grass, telling her that it’s okay. She believes him wholeheartedly and she doesn’t question that sort of faith until she has her wits about her again. 

**ii. istanbul**

In Istanbul, it’s a fire. it’s smoke filling the room and Solo’s jacket pressed over her face because all she can do is cough. It’s Solo with fear on his face for what could possible be the first time she ever recalls. 

It’s Solo’s, “Peril,” as he gives up hope. They’ll burn alive in here. Or the smoke will kill them before it happens, if they’re lucky. 

Only Illya’s got a foot braced against the wall, his hands wrapped around iron bars that block their exit. He’s been pulling and pulling and pulling and there’s soot on his face and smoke in his lungs but his strength never wanes. 

Never.

A crack of cement and Solo’s head lifts. He heads to help and Gaby goes to follow. 

“No,” Illya grunts. “Be ready to run, Cowboy.” 

The wall gives a moment later. Iron bars cracking their way free and it almost comes back to hit Illya in the head. he discards it and the three usher themselves out of the cell. Fire blazes and smoke encases, but they make it out. They survive. 

Later, Gaby bandages his hands while Solo pours them a drink. A double for his Russian friend. Who’d saved their lives. Again. 

**iii. venice**

In Venice, it isn’t strength, but agility she sees. They get surrounded quicker than she imagines they would. Their weapons confiscated. 

“Hands up,” someone orders them. They do as they’re asked

She notices Illya’s hand shake and he doesn’t lift them higher than his shoulders. He has that look on his face. One she’s come to recognize. She wants to tell him  _no._  There are too many. But she doesn’t get the chance. They order them to turn around and walk. 

“Take it easy,” Solo insists when a gun gets pressed to the small of his back. 

Gaby’s frightened. This called for being rational and calm and sometimes Illya…

He’s moving without a warning. Six guns aimed at them and he takes out three of them before someone manages to shout. Well aimed blows to wrists, throats, temples. He’s got four of them on the ground, a fifth comes at him with a knife and she doesn’t what happens at that because Solo’s pulling her away from the commotion. Out of the line of fire. 

At some point, Illya had claimed one of their guns as his own and he takes down the two still standing with well aimed shots. 

He’s coming up behind them once it’s over. 

“Well done, Peril,” Solo praises. 

“Let’s go,” Illya nods and what he meant to say was thank you. But they’re still in the thick of it. 

“You’re bleeding,” Gaby tells him. 

“It is only a scratch,” he tells her. 

Later, when she’s watching the medical team stitch him back together, she vows to teach him what the word scratch means. 

**iv. manhattan**

In Manhattan, it’s his stubbornness.

“You’re truly going to make me say it?” Solo asks and he’s grouchier than normal today. It has nothing to do with the bullet hole in his shoulder or the arm he has in a sling. It has everything to do with the packed bag by the door, waiting for the bellhop. 

Illya stands next to it, eyes narrowed. “Say what you want to say,” he demands.

Gaby sits between them, on the back of the couch because she doesn’t like any of this. Not even a little bit. 

“It’s a trap, Illya,” Solo says and he only uses the man’s name when he’s being deathly serious about something. It speaks volume, now. “It’s a game. You know this is a ploy and you insist on taking their bait? This is not going to end well for you. And UNCLE surely won’t be able to march into Moscow to pull you out.” 

It’s silence. It’s the silence that greets the words, instead of an argument. He knows. He’s going anyway and Gaby won’t find out until later what leverage they’d had over the man, to get him to walk away from them. To recall him. 

He says it’s only for a month and then he’ll be back. 

Gaby thinks she knew before he even opened his mouth that it would never work out that way. He wasn’t coming back on his own. 

“You’re going to miss me, Cowboy?” It’s a joke, a playful smile, but it’s the only goodbye he knows. 

Solo takes too long to answer. “Not in the slightest.” 

**v. moscow**

In Moscow, it’s a heart monitor. 

It’s so painfully different than anything she’s ever associated with him. He always stood back up. No matter how hard she saw him get him, Illya Kuryakin always stood back up. 

Not this time. 

They’d left him there too long. A month and a half, it’d been a trap. They’d known it, he’d known it and the big idiot had gone there anyway. It had nearly been the death of him. 

The room was silent, except for the heart monitor. Nothing she’d ever find to be a comforting thing any other time, except for now. Because he was laying so still and so lifeless, it was the only sign that somewhere in there, a heart was still beating. 

“Illya,” she whispers, like she has the past three days at his side. Her smalls hands take his, lifting it to her mouth so she can press her lips to his fingers. She should have kissed him before he’d left. They’d spent so much time dancing around it, skirting around the topic, full out denying that anything was happening. It was stupid. And fickle. And he’d almost died on her. 

There’s no response now and she reaches up to brush fingers through his hair, mindful of the bandage around his head. Holding him together. “Illya,” she whispers again. 

The only noise that greets her is the blip of the heart monitor. 

Solo comes and goes and each time, he departs by making some snide comment about Russians and their hard heads. It should be insulting, but Gaby doesn’t get mad because she knows him well enough by now. He’s trying to get a rise out of Illya. It hadn’t worked so far.

It gets dark out and she turns off the light, still curled at his side, watching his face. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “I should have asked you to stay.” 

The heart monitor answers her as usual. 

She starts humming after that. Not a lullaby, but something familiar. Something that always reminded her of him, ever since that first night. A familiar tune, like she can almost hear it coming through the radio and remember how it was that first time they’d danced together. She’d been drunk, he’d been begrudging. 

His hand squeezes hers at the second verse. 

Taking a breath, she sits up and he sighs, his head rolling to the side. His eyes start to flutter and she can tell the moment they focus on her face. “This is not Gulag,” he rasps. 

She shakes her head, leaning in closer to him. “Sorry to disappoint,” she tells him. 

“No,” his eyes close again and she tries to keep him with her by touching his face. “You would never.” 

A breath and she’s trying to go for the hallway, to get the doctors. But his hand curled around hers has more strength than she thinks it should have. He whispers something in Russian and she nods. She’d been working learning it. For him. 

“ _Stay with me.”_ A simple request. 

She obliges. He always stands back up. 


End file.
